


Bitter

by hbxplain



Series: More Lives Than One [10]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), More Lives Than One, Original Work
Genre: Finny Angst, Gen, Istus Is Sick, Istus' Quilt, Season 1, The Team Bonding/Training Room Episode, Written by Haven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbxplain/pseuds/hbxplain
Summary: Istus is, for lack of a better word... bitter.





	Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Another reminder: this is for our DnD campaign MLTO, and the full campaign can be found on the wattpad account "stormcause"!

Istus is, for lack of a better word… bitter.

She tries not to be. Usually, she doesn't _have _to try. She loves these emotional goofballs, even if sometimes they're a little short on the emotions. And the goofs. Okay, she's really not sure how they don't just cry every second of every day. They're a mess.

But she loves them.

All the same… She's dying. She's dying, and it's their fault, she knows. They've torn time apart, ripped it thread by thread away from her. She holds her quilt in her hands but she knows she's not in control--this isn't her time anymore.

It's theirs.

And that's not great for the goddess of time, but she wasn't created to _control _time, contrary to what Cyndor prefers to think. She was created to _watch _it. Observe its habits, and protect it, but not in the way Cyndor wants. She protects time by allowing it to continue as it will, and that includes allowing the Good, the Bad (emphasis on this one), and the Chosen to mess just about everything up.

So she loves them. It's hard, but it's also so, so easy, and she loves them.

But she is, _occasionally, _a little bitter.

When Finnaela leads her crew into the basement for "teamwork training," Istus thinks it's absolutely adorable. She watches from afar, from the comfort of her quilt--she knows Finny wouldn't appreciate her sitting on what she assumes was Cabhan's beanbag chair, but she also knows she's dying and deserves this small comfort. Plus, she feels less like she's invading the mortals' privacy when she's close enough to hear them physically and not just magically--if she so chooses.

The crew (save Furia) work well together, even if it's on accident. Istus loves their bickering, their banter, the comparing and contrasting of Istus' world and Finnaela's.

But when the training turns to a trust fall, Istus knows who will succeed and who won't. She turns invisible when Pariv, Erdan, and Cabhan leave the room, and she's not the least bit surprised when, even after several minutes, Finnaela does not follow.

Still invisible, Istus slips into the room. Finnaela is atop the trust fall wall, peering down the edge, biting at her lip. The fake goddess sighs and begins to pace.

Istus knows Finnaela used all of her spell slots getting the training room up and working again. The goddess of time knows, _knows, _that as much as Finny loves every version of her crew, her faith--more specifically, her faith in their opinions of her--does not spread quite so evenly. Istus' own faith wavers in this regard, though she knows it is not her place even to wonder.

Finnaela's cellstone rings. (Istus loves how the mortals name things.) From what Istus can gather without looking through her quilt, the dragonborn is on the other end. He must ask for something, because Finnaela sighs, fondly rolling her eyes, and then freezes and winces in regret as she realizes she cannot get down to retrieve whatever it is Pariv wants. She makes an excuse, and for a moment, Istus wants to help. She tries to walk forward, still invisible, and stumbles over her own feet. Her head spins. Her quilt's colors momentarily fade.

If Istus can handle the literal fabric of time being torn beneath her fingers, then Finnaela can handle being stranded on a wall.

Finnaela panics, suddenly, and Istus assumes it's something to do with the blue one that ran off. She sits against the wall as she watches Finnaela shout, do that odd plane-switching thing she does, and then finally sit down, defeated, and rest her head in her hands.

Finnaela says something. Istus strains her ears. _"This is what I wanted. They're home. It's okay if I'm not."_

Cruelly, Istus narrows her eyes, only barely ashamed of the satisfaction that washes over her at Finnaela's pained expression.

☼☼☼

Yet she is there, hours later, weaving the threads of her quilt around the blue one's heart. It is a tether to a world that is not Furia's own--a tether to the only world Furia remembers. Istus feels each thread as though it is pulled from beneath her skin, but she keeps knitting because she loves Furia. She loves them all, even though they are not hers.

Cyndor will be furious, she knows. She's not a stranger to the odd, stray thought of time that will often cross a mortal's mind, but she could consider herself a lover to the kind of thought that Cyndor thinks--not in the loving sense, but in something grounded very, very heavily in propinquity. It is all he thinks about anymore, all he talks about, and she always says the same thing in response:

"Leave it be."

He never does. He says he's doing it for her, for her health, for her livelihood.

But when he thinks about time, she hears each silent wonder, and she never once hears her own name.


End file.
